Zombies at the Pyramid

Marcus dragged himself through the cafeteria line, feeling like the **zombie** apocalypse had hit junior year instead of biology. Three AP classes, varsity basketball, and now his best friend Tyrell was talking about joining some "revolutionary new business opportunity."

"It's not a **pyramid** scheme," Tyrell insisted, slamming his protein shake onto their lunch table. "It's a multi-level marketing strategy. My cousin's making five grand a month selling these energy supplements."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Bro, that's literally what a pyramid scheme is. You buy in, recruit more people, and hope you're not the left holding the empty bag when it crashes."

"You're just scared of success," Tyrell shot back, but Marcus noticed the way his friend's eyes kept darting toward the senior table—where Chloe, the girl he'd been crushing on since September, sat laughing with her friends.

The real **bull** in this situation wasn't the mascot costume Marcus had to wear at Friday's game, or even the algebra test he hadn't studied for. It was the way high school made everyone desperate to prove they were already somebody, like they couldn't just be seventeen and confused.

That night, Marcus lay in bed scrolling through his phone, watching Tyrell's Instagram story about his "business launch." His thumb hovered over the screen, wanting to comment something supportive. But instead he typed: "You don't have to prove anything to anyone. You're already my best friend."

He deleted it immediately. Too cheesy.

The next morning, Tyrell slumped into his usual seat next to Marcus's locker. "So... I might have bought $500 worth of inventory."

Marcus stared at him. "Bro."

"I know, I know." Tyrell buried his face in his hands. "I just... Chloe said she liked guys who were, like, entrepreneurial."

Marcus grabbed his shoulder. "You spent $500 to impress someone who doesn't even know your middle name? That's not zombie behavior, that's just being a dumbass."

They both cracked up, the tension breaking like a dropped beaker in chem lab.

"So..." Marcus started, "how much are these supplements actually going for?"

"Don't you dare." But Tyrell was smiling. "Fine. What if we split the profits?"

"Deal. But I'm keeping half for emotional damages."

As the first bell rang, Marcus realized something: being a teenager wasn't about having it all figured out. It was about surviving the chaos together—even if that meant selling suspicious energy drinks to fund their senior prom tickets.